Lost in Translation
by Tangledupandsideways
Summary: Body language is still a language and he's been trying to tell her the same thing for years, something that has no perfect translation, something that means so much less in plain English.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story will have a total of 5 chapters to be posted fairly quickly because it's all written, just needs editing. And, it is my favourite of all the Callian stories I have ever written, inspired by the little exchange in Darkness and Light where Gillian tries to call Molly an ex-actress and is told to say it in plain English. Hope you enjoy!_

She doesn't hear all the things his body tells her. She's not a native speaker. She has spent nearly a decade learning every little thing that made him, well _him_ , and yet she's still nowhere near fluent. She thinks she understands him sometimes, then he goes and does something that completely surprises her, conflicts with the values of the man she thought he was, with the rules of grammar and convention and usage. And it's because the nuances of a language aren't so easy to learn. Sometimes, and only _sometimes_ , native speakers understand them a bit better or can at least infer their meaning. But Gillian doesn't know that they're there at all.

It's in the way he holds his body slightly differently when she's around than when she's not. It's in the way he leans just a hair closer to her voice, her scent, her touch than any other person. It's in the way his terrible posture somehow slouches that bit more when she's near so as not to betray him. It's in the little things, in the things that would never catch the attention of someone not really looking and may even then escape them.

So yes, there are others that can see it, that look at him and know how deeply he loves her in just seconds. Just because she's not hearing doesn't mean he's not saying the words. He loves her. He carries so much love for her in his every cell that his body's been telling her without his permission for years.

Emily sees it. Emily notices the little things and makes the connection near instantly. She so innocently asks him if it's true and the mere weight of his confession has her realising that it's even deeper than she expected. And she can see Gillian's more obvious mirroring. Gillian's not a native speaker; her words are clumsy and disjointed on her tongue (all over her body). Her amateurish speech pattern makes her so transparent to those who know the language well. It's the chasm-wide gaps between the syllables, the words, which gives her away. It's the hesitations her body makes that her voice wouldn't ever.

Zoe sees it. Zoe looks at Gillian with so much contempt because she knew all those years ago that her husband was in love with his business partner just by a subtle softening of all his movements, by the way his actions spoke of a reverence for Gillian that he'd never shown for her. She sees it in Gillian, too. Even more so, now she's been single. Gillian's voice betrays none without losing any at all and that's always been a wonder to Zoe. But, her body stumbles over the words in her fear of saying them and Zoe knows. She knows there's a love there that goes both ways, a love that's magnitude could swallow up the universe if finally unleashed in all of its intensity.

Gillian's a language expert, fluent in at least three, so it's strange she doesn't understand that this one works the same. Body language is still a language and he's been trying to tell her the same thing for years, something that has no perfect translation, something that means so much less in plain English. Even knowing him for eight years, she still doesn't know enough of Cal Lightman to really be able to translate his actions into words. She gets the main ideas, but she can't quite explain the depth, can't quite understand it herself. She knows that he cares about her, but not how much. She doesn't see the devotion, the respect, the love he has for her. Honestly, love isn't a big enough word to cover all the things he feels about her.

That's why he won't say the words with his voice. The word 'love' even in its most powerful usage has become dulled, thrown around carelessly and losing mass along the edges as it chips and dents and scratches. The word 'love' wouldn't tell her that she is so important to him that he would literally give his life just to ensure her happiness, that he would give her anything, he would be anyone just to be near her. To be with her... God, he doesn't even know what he _wouldn't_ give, wouldn't do to be with her. He's more than in love with her. He more than needs her, more than wants her, even more than can't live without her.

He feels for her something so strong, so rare, there are no words that can describe it, none at all. But somehow, his body has found a way to. And he'll wait. He'll wait as long as it takes for her to see it, for her to become fluent in the language of the body, particularly the language of _his_ body. He'll wait for her to see it, and if she _says_ it (that word that's meaning he knows will suddenly be more just because it leaves _her_ mouth), then he'll show her all the other things his body has to say.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn't hear all the things her voice tells him. He's not a native speaker. He can't hear the things her voice cries without words, even when they err towards desperate and just beg to be understood. They're subtle, these slick little peals of emotion buried beneath the premise of innocuous syllables. It's just a little shift of her intonation that she doesn't know how to even out although her skill is enormous. Some days, she doesn't even think she would want to if she could. She doesn't like to lie and her tone is the barest of truths, stripped naked and on display. He just doesn't speak her language well enough to hear it. He doesn't hear the nuance, the little changes she can't control.

It's in the way her voice wobbles sometimes, just as she begins a conversation with him. It's in the bamboo bending of her tone, soft and stretching toward whatever he wants of her. It's in the way her concern shrieks shrill even in its hushed potency. It's in everything she says. It's just hiding under verbalisation.

It's not like no one else can hear it. Some people are better at listening than others. Some can see the depth of love she feels for him just by listening to her speak, just by being more attentive to the things no one else really tends to, to the things some wouldn't even be able to hear if it were pointed out to them.

Emily hears it. She hears it best as Gillian is faced with some sort of distress, like when she was so afraid for him after he'd gotten himself admitted to a mental institution. She knew it was there, though she couldn't connect it on her features. She had heard it in the tiny shift in pitch, nearly inaudible to the human ear. She hears it on her dad, too, obvious as he speaks about her or to her or even just has the thought of her on his mind.

Alec hears it. He hears it in the way her voice warms soft in feigned apology every time she tells him she has to work late or do something for her friend and business partner. He hears it on Cal, too. He can hear it in the way his voice sort of chokes on her name, even as his face hardens to unreadable stone, in the way his goodbye drags on so many extra beats like it's difficult for him. It's why he looks at Cal with so much disgust.

Cal's made it his job to understand people and he should know she has layers just like everyone else. But after eight years of knowing each other, Cal still can't decode the flushed heat behind her words, can't understand the underlying tensions and pitches and tones. Subtext is a language, too, and there's so much she's been saying in riddles her mouth speaks before her brain can stop them. It's a language he's well practiced in. It's just not his first. So, he can squint at her and listen all he wants, but he won't hear. He won't understand the subtleties.

That's why she won't say the words with her voice. Hearing the words won't be enough to explain to him all that she's really saying. It's more than love (that word that feels so much like a lie with the freedom of its usage when it's meant to mean so much more). Gillian can hardly fathom the truth of it. She more than loves him, more than wants him, even more than needs him to survive. She would give anything, _anything_ (even the things she most desires like genuine romantic love and a child and a home; a family) just to have him in her life at all. To truly have him, to have him as _hers_ , well she doesn't know what she _wouldn't_ give, wouldn't do.

She feels so much for him that words don't make a worthy attempt at explaining it. The optimist in her thinks one day he'll find fluency, hear the verity of the emotions in her voice and be able to name every one. So, she'll wait. She'll wait for him to hear it (and she lets herself believe that it will happen one day even with the realisation that no one's ever become fluent in her own special brand of vocality, even knowing somewhere deep inside that it's so unlikely he ever really will). After all, there aren't words she can say that make this particular truth apparent. There isn't anything she could say to let him know. At least, not with words. She'll let the sounds that leave her mouth do that. She'll just have to wait for him to hear them.


	3. Chapter 3

"Tell me you don't see it," he says as he walks into the room unannounced, unwilling to bother with the formality of a greeting when the issue is so pressing.

"What am I looking for?" She responds, clicking a key on her keyboard and slowly shutting her laptop in the space of her office.

"The truth," he says.

She hears something in his words, something she'd long ago stopped listening for out of fear she wouldn't find it. But it's there, that something, or at least she thinks it is. Suddenly perplexed, her eyes shoot up to meet his.

"Cal?" she asks, her voice coming out much closer to desperate and strained than she'd like.

He merely gives a small, lopsided smile. Her heartbeat doubles, triples in speed, skips and flips over the possibility.

"What am I looking for?" she repeats, her tongue starting to feel a lot heavier in her mouth.

"Can't tell you, love. The words aren't there," he admits, shrugging. "Need you to look."

She lets out a breath and stands, moving around her desk to get nearer to the absolute vulnerability that encapsulates her focus. She tries to see it, tries to find the words on his body as her eyes make a slow pass over his face, his figure.

"C'mon, tell me you see it," he practically begs.

"I'm trying," she says, stepping even closer to his nearness.

She closes her eyes, hoping that a moment's reprieve will give her the clarity that she needs to do what he's asking of her. His hand comes up to cup her jaw, thumb stroking a gentle caress over the high point of her cheek.

Her eyes fly open, met with mingling shades of jade and amber, luminous as the stones themselves. She watches his eyes soften that bit more when they meet hers, watches his mouth twitch and his body sway just a touch closer, so near she can practically feel him against her.

"Is that..." she starts the question, but can't bring herself to say the word, not when she's not sure, not when it wouldn't seem like enough even if she was.

"More than," is his reply. She can hear the truth in it, the surety of his belief in the words, in her, in the two of them together.

"Cal," her voice hushes over him, breath so close he can feel it fanning warm against his chin. "Why didn't you say?"

He sighs, honest distress coming over his features as he shrugs his shoulders up and takes a half step back from her radiance.

"I didn't know how."

It seems to him like it's not enough of a reason. He should have found the words. He should have done better. She _deserves_ better, the best. Watching his saddened retreat, Gillian reaches out and presses her palm against his chest, just shy of his heart.

"No, I understand," Gillian says, swaying forward just close enough that he takes the hint and steps up near to her again, only a breath of space between them.

She slides her hand up slowly, trailing a path up over his shoulder to hold him even closer, matching the movement with her opposite hand to complete the embrace. She closes the entirety of the space that separates them, her cheek coming to rest against the length of his neck.

"I couldn't tell you, either," is her shaky whisper, coupled with an increased pressure of her fingers against the bunched muscles of his shoulders. "At least not with words."

In just seconds, he has her held just far enough away to see her features, desperation in the grip of his fingers around her waist.

"Gill?" he's asking with a look of so much surprise on his face that she can't refuse a reply.

"I love you, Cal," she manages to say, voice raw with emotion and tears beginning to pool in her eyes.

He was right. He was _so_ right. The words mean almost too much when paired with her tone, her expression, the way her body can't help but bend nearer to his obvious affection.

"You..."

"I love you. I do," she affirms, smiling as the tears spill over and run down her cheeks to collect under her trembling chin.

His movements are gentler than she expects with the speed in which he makes them. He pulls her flush against his body, one hand digging even harder into the softness of her flesh and the other back to cupping her face. His lips cover hers like a gentle blanket of snow over smooth earth, bringing her to life in a way she didn't know possible. Her mouth parts for him on its own accord, accepting of his tongue before it can even ask for entrance.

His taste awakens her desire and her hands tangle up in his hair, tugging him even closer. She sighs a breath into the cavern of his mouth, near desperate for air, but unwilling to end the kiss.

"Gill," he mumbles against her mouth, moving just a millimetre from the warmth of her lips to inhale more deeply. It's not just made of breath as if part of a sigh, but actual substance that suggests more words to follow.

"Shh," she replies, cutting off the opportunity to protest with a deep, wet kiss that sloughs a groan off of him.

"Let me just say it," he tries to convince her in the space of another breath.

She grunts a noise of negation with another gentle kiss against his lips, brief and chaste this time.

"You don't have to. I can hear it now."

He smiles brightly and fuses his lips to hers again, eager now for her to hear the rest, for her to know everything that words would never be enough to tell her. After all, fluency in a language is best achieved through full immersion.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: An M chapter_

He honestly hadn't expected his non-verbal confession to bring him here, to turn the earth far enough on its axis that she somehow ends up in his bed. He worries he's dreaming the mornings he wakes to find her so close, warm and bundling the blankets in her fists, keeping them mostly to herself. But it's not a dream Gillian that he comes into contact with when he reaches a touch over her ribs, sliding down the dip of her waist to the fullness of her hip. It's not wisps that break into particles of oxygen, of carbon dioxide, of nitrogen gas that slip through his fingers. No, this Gillian is warm and solid beneath his fingertips, sighing into the stroke of his touch even in her sleep. This Gillian is real and entirely naked in his bed. _His_ bed. How he'd gotten her there, he would never understand. Somehow everything he felt for her, she felt in return.

He remembers how she'd told him things with her voice that her words didn't say; how "I want you" meant "I need you", how "make love to me" meant "tell me all your thousand truths." He'd done everything as she'd asked, the trembling of his bared body the only voicing of his concern, his concern that it would end, that she would leave. And she'd assuaged his every fear with the sound of his name tumbling off of her tongue, followed by a strained and twisting plea.

It was then that he slid into her that first time, ears so open to how her gasp had come first, then morphed into a throaty, appreciative moan as the entire length of her body squeezed more tightly around his. Those little sounds of enjoyment were meant as more than encouragement; they were tiny testaments to how much she really loved him, how completely she'd surrendered herself to his loving. He surprises himself at knowing their true meaning so instantly. It's a skill his newfound understanding of her feelings for him had instilled. And her body tells him the same things, but louder, clearer.

She had cried his name as she came, the single syllable instantly becoming his favourite for all else it really entailed. He had followed quickly at the sheer honesty of the moment, his hips stuttering when he no longer had the strength to scream every statement with limber movements (powerful thrusts telling of such powerful feelings). And he'd marvelled at just how beautiful the complete truth of her was as she'd shivered at his withdrawal, shifting closer to his warmth the second his body touched down next to hers on the mattress.

Now, he watches her wake beside him for what must be the fourth or fifth time (he can't bring himself to count because he knows he can't count forever in numbers; infinity is merely a concept). He has the sudden urge to pinch himself. He squeezes against her hip, from the place where his hand hadn't yet managed to lift, as a yawn stretches from the confines of her throat and has her body following its movement and brushing against him.

He moves even closer, angling his body along her back and burying his nose into the hair at her nape to breathe in the scent of shampoo and skin.

"Morning," he greets her.

He's answered by way of a sleepy groan and he smiles at the amusement he feels at Gillian's not being a morning person. Her eyes fall closed in obvious denial of waking as her body turns to face his, cuddling in closer.

"Morning," she finally says.

He smiles at the sound of her voice, suddenly able to hear so much more in it.

"Planning to get up any time soon?"

She scoffs, her hands coming up to stroke leisurely through his hair. He lets out a sound much like purring at the repetitive touch and she giggles in response.

"Sunday," she replies, still near monosyllabic and sleepy.

"Alright, then," he responds, crossing his arms behind his head in a way that traps her hand in its place against his scalp and letting his eyes slip closed.

She smiles at the outright gesture of adoration as the two share a few moments of comfortable silence. She hadn't expected this when he had burst into her office and desperately urged her to see the unspoken in his actions. She hadn't expected a confession from him and she definitely didn't expect to return it. She didn't expect to be given a gift as great as the lightness in her chest and the further truth to her smile. But now that she has it, she's not ever giving it up. She's going to do everything in her power to bridge the language gap and hear the things he tells her, tell him things in a way she knows he'll understand. She's going to make this last forever (so many days she won't be able to count them like the nineteen that had passed since they'd first shared these truths and this bed). Forever still wouldn't be enough time with _him_.


	5. Chapter 5

They've not yet tired of the novelty of being so close. In the early hours of the morning, when dawn is just breaking over the horizon on the late spring day, he holds her near to him, the warmth of her pressed along his side and her leg hitched over his hip. He's waking knowing he should still be sleeping, watching for the telltale signs of her waking as well. She's at such peace as she slumbers, features soft and lax and mouth pouting just slightly.

It's the noise that has her blinking awake in sleepy annoyance; the kitchen door being opened (with the force of a hip because it still jams now and then), the thudding of a bag to the floor, and then before it even resisters in his mind, a voice calling out for him as footsteps rush up the staircase.

"Dad! Do you have the forms I asked you to sign. I have to go to-"

He has just enough time to tug the blanket up over Gillian's bared back before his daughter's standing at the open door to the room, two heads turning to look at her as she looks into the space blinking furiously.

"I-I'm sorry," she spews in her shock, yet just the tiniest glint of happiness peeks through after initial surprise. "I'll just..."

Emily makes a gesture as she turns and leaves as quickly as she'd come, her feet down the staircase the only sound apart from their breathing.

One moment, two moments, three pass them by and then Gillian's fully awake and laughing, the sound muffled against the muscles of his chest.

"It's not funny, love," he says, hardly able to keep the amused smile off his face. "That's my daughter. Gonna have to face her eventually."

"Hardly the way you'd planned to tell her, huh?" she asks, mirth lighting up her features as she raises her head from him, the ends of her hair brushing over his skin in the wake of her movement.

"Why're you not bothered by this?" he asks, moving into sitting and levering himself off the bed.

Gillian follows his lead, swinging her legs over so her toes meet lush carpet and scanning the room for the rest of her clothing.

"Didn't you hear her? She was happy, Cal. That's a lot less to be concerned about than if she weren't," she tells him.

She collects garments and holds them up over her naked chest as he thinks over the words, pulling his discarded jeans on over his hips. Gillian tosses him his wrinkled T-shirt, which he catches in one hand.

"Go, go. Emily needed something," she encourages when she sees him just standing there.

He scratches his head once, then pulls the shirt over his head, ruffling his sleep-tousled hair even further. He leaves the room and closes the door behind him to afford Gillian her privacy as she dresses.

She comes downstairs into the kitchen minutes later, fully dressed and handbag hitched over her shoulder, ready to leave. Emily is sitting at the kitchen island talking with her dad in hushed tones and nursing a warm beverage between her palms. They both turn at her periphery presence; not quite joining in, but not quite willing to be too far removed either.

"Hi," she says quietly, warming a loving glance over the both of them.

"Going somewhere, love?"

"I'm supposed to meet my mom in just a few hours," she says, making a show of glancing at the wall clock. "I should go home, get ready."

"Stay?" he requests softly, the invitation so warm from his tongue.

"Cal," she chastises slowly, her grip on the strap of her handbag tightening.

"Stay," it comes from Emily this time, nearer a demand than an offer.

"Em, if you need some time to-" Gillian tries, not wanting to be the source of tension in the room as Emily had just learned of her new relationship with her father in a rather shocking way.

"I don't," she disrupts smoothly. "I think it's great, Gill. I mean it'd be better if you had some clothes on, but it's good. Don't go."

Her resolve wavers even as an embarrassed blush rises over her cheeks, her body leading her steps forward before she even makes the decision.

"Just for a bit," she concedes, making her way over to the island.

"Good," Emily smiles. "I've already poured your coffee."

She returns the smile, effectively hiding her surprise as she sits down in the stool next to Emily's, squeezing her shoulder in thanks.

She sips at creamed coffee and makes conversation as Cal cooks breakfast for the three of them, feeling sadness creep over her as she realises that she really does have to leave this happy domesticity in only a few more minutes.

It's as they pile their dishes in the sink that Gillian sighs.

"I really do have to go," she says, frowning at her wristwatch.

"I'll walk you out," Cal says and Emily takes that exactly as it's meant, saying her goodbye before Gillian and Cal leave the room.

Cal lingers in the hallway as Gillian slips into her heels. He retrieves her coat from the hook and approaches, holding it out for her to slip her arms into. She turns to face him once she has, her smile lining up precisely with his in her three inch heels.

He leans in to press a kiss against her lips, just a soft and quick caress. He pulls her into his embrace, arms wrapping tightly around her as he tries to forget for a moment that she's not spending the day with him.

"I still think this is a dream sometimes," she confesses, quiet words close to his ear.

"Is it everything you imagined?" he asks in reply, voice going wistfully soft as he pulls back from the embrace.

She smiles, thinking there aren't enough words in existence to describe how much happier she is than she thought possible. She lets it be seen, lets it lace her words and move her body.

"More than," she says.

And somehow the words are more than enough.

 _A/N: sorry this one took so long. Been busy. Hope it's worth the little wait. More stuff soon and some is very different :)_


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